Scars, Suicide and Australians

Twitter and Blood

A/N

There is A LOT of swearing and graphic self harming scenes. If you aren't comfortable reading this, stop reading my book because there's a lot of this to come.

*a week later*

Ana's POV

We were at the boys house, as usual, just having a chill out day.

I was scrolling through twitter, favouriting and retweeting funny stuff. As I am good friends with the boys, all nine of them follow me. we often take selfies and they tweet about me a lot. My followers have gone through the roof.

However there is a downside. I get a lot of hate. This has caused me to eat less, throw up more, and cut more. I can tell Becky is getting worried.

All of a sudden, I come across a tweet I didn't particularly want to see.

@Calum5SOS: I can't wait for our There's No Place Like Girls Eating Cake tour with @janoskians starting in twelve days!'

I screen shotted it and DM'ed it to Becky. I heard her phone ping. She clicked on the picture and looked at me. I nodded. Time for a Bitch Fit.

"Why the motherfucking fuck do I have to find out THROUGH A MOTHERFUCKING TWEET that you are going ON A MOTHERFUCKING TOUR IN TWELVE MOTHERFUCKING DAYS?" I scream.

"AND WHY THE MOTHERFUCKING FUCK DO I HAVE TO FIND OUT THROUGH A MOTHERFUCKING DM THAT YOU ARE GOING ON A MOTHERFUCKING TOUR IN TWELVE MOTHERFUCKING DAYS?" Becky adds.

"AND WHY THE MOTHERFUCKING FUCK DID YOU NOT TELL US SOONER?" I ask.

"We didn't know how you'd react." Beau said quietly.

"DIDN'T KNOW HOW WE'D MOTHERFUCKING REACT? HOW DO YOU THINK WE'D MOTHERFUCKING REACT? NINE OF MY BEST FRIENDS WHO HELPED ME STOP MOTHERFUCKING SELF HARMING ARE LEAVING ME AND THEY DIDN'T HAVE THE GUTS TO MOTHERFUCKING TELL ME." I scream.

"Thanks a fucking lot." I add quietly, sprinting out the door.

I vaguely hear Becky screaming at them, but I've gone numb. At the moment, only one thing can make me happy again. My blades.

I run through our front door and take the stairs three at a time. Running through my room to the adjoining bathroom, I reach into the cupboard under the sink and grab the blusher pot. I shut the door and lock it, before sliding down against the wall opposite and sit on the floor. I grab a blade and pull off my bracelets, shirt and jeans. I cut everywhere I can. Fresh cuts, cuts over old scars, cuts over bruises and cuts over my humongous fat.

I can see blood everywhere. Blood on my stomach, hips, thighs and wrists. The door in front of me is blurring, and I feel light headed and dizzy.

The door starts to be shaken and whacked. I hear Becky's frantic voice, among lots of male ones. I hear someone yell at someone to call an ambulance. I can't tell. I'm loosing my mind.

The last thing that runs through my head before everything goes black is one name.

Luke Brooks.